The Duke and Duchess de Chartres give a grand banquet in honor of
Commodore Paul Jones. The Duchess asks Doctor Franklin, whom she
esteems, and calls “Monsieur le Sage” for his wisdom. Also, to please
the worthy doctor, she has Madame de Houdetot, and the rest of his Passy
friends, including the vivacious Madame Helvetius.
“Only,” says the Duchess, who has weaknesses that favor washtubs--“only
I trust that our ‘Rich Widow of Passy’ will wear a fresh frock, if only
to give us something to, talk about.”
The good Marsan and Aimee are among the guests. Indeed, it is to see
Aimee and Commodore Paul Jones together that has caused the Duchess
de Chartres to order the fête. She will bring the pair beneath her
eyes--the young Aimee, and the “Commodore,” who has become formal. She
will then know the best and worst of their hearts.
The Duchess is right in this assumption; for you may no more hide love
than smoke. With half-watchfulness, she readily surprises their secret.
Still she is gay and light; for her heart is the heart of a Bourbon, and
the heart of your Bourbon is never a breakable.
She seats Commodore Paul Jones on her right, which is the thing
expected. Aimee is on his other hand; which last excites his
suspicions--having that guilty feeling--while attracting the attention
of nobody else. Over across is the wise Franklin, who finds himself
vastly at home between the Houdetot and the rosy Helvetius, who is a
marvel of tidiness.
The Duchess pays a deal of polite attention to Commodore Paul Jones.
“I cannot think, my dear Commodore,” she cries, “how, with your ship
on fire, and sinking under your feet, you had courage to continue the
fight.”
“Your royal highness forgets. To surrender would have meant a
postponement of the bliss of meeting you.”
“Now, Bayard himself,” returns the Duchess, “could have said nothing so
knightly!”
Aimee glows at this. In the face of her fears, she still likes to hear
her lover-hero praised.
“There is a promise!” exclaims the Duchess.
Commodore Paul Jones reddens through the tan. What is coming! There is
much of royal recklessness in the Duchess’ royal blood; she will now and
then say a bold thing.
“You promised,” she goes on, “to lay an English frigate at my feet.”
Commodore Paul Jones is relieved. More, he is pleased, since the Duchess
gives him a chance to be dramatic. He sends for his servant, who brings
him a slim morocco case.
“Your royal highness,” he says, unbuckling the morocco case; “I shall
be better than my word. I lay at your feet, not a frigate truly, but a
forty-four gun ship of two decks. Here is the token of it--the sword of
as brave a sailor as ever sailed.”
Commodore Paul Jones presents the Duchess with the vanquished sword of
Captain Pearson, which he has taken from the morocco case. The Duchess,
who has not foreseen this return to her sally, is deeply stirred. She
receives the sword, and presses the gold scabbard to her lips.
“It is dear to me as the sword of a conquered Englishman!” she cries,
turning with swimming eyes upon the company. “It is doubly dear when it
comes from my Achilles of the ocean!”
There is a buzz of admiration about the tables. Aimee herself is in a
dream of happiness; for she has alarms but no jealousies, and the glory
of her lover is her glory.
Before the guests break up for departure, Doctor Franklin and Commodore
Paul Jones have a word together.
“I have asked for it,” says the Doctor, “and de Sartine leads me to
think that, as soon as the ship is refitted, the king will give you the
_Serapis_.”
Commodore Paul Jones brightens to a sparkle.
“I could do wonders with so stout a ship,” he replies.
“I think you may count on it,” goes on the Doctor. “Indeed, when I
remember in what manner the French came by the _Serapis_, I cannot see
how the king is to refuse.”
“Should I get it, I’ll put Dick Dale in command of the _Alliance_. There
shall be no second Landais you may be sure!”
“Speaking of the _Alliance_,” returns the Doctor, “I shall send it to
America as soon as the overhaul is finished, with certain munitions of
war I’ve collected.”
Commodore Paul Jones’ pulse begins to beat uneasily. Antony does not
want to leave his Cleopatra. What the Doctor next says, sets him to
renewed ease.
“Lieutenant Dale might better take the _Alliance_ across. You will be
needed here, if we are to coax the king into giving you the _Serapis_.
There will be time for the _Alliance_ to return before the _Serapis_ is
refitted.”
Doctor Franklin tells how he has formally relieved Landais from
all command, and ordered him to report to the Marine Committee in
Philadelphia, on charges of cowardice and treason. Also, Commissioner
Arthur Lee has been called home; Congress has become suspicious of his
work.
“The man’s a greater traitor than Landais!” cries Commodore Paul Jones
heatedly.
“Without expressing myself on that point,” observes the Doctor, eye
a-twinkle, “the situation produced by Mr. Lee’s recall, makes another
reason why Dale should sail with the _Alliance_ and you stay here. Mr.
Lee, I understand, has decided to take passage home in the _Alliance_.”
It is the next day; the Duchess summons Commodore Paul Jones to the
morning-room, where she sits alone in the spring sunshine.
“Your love is like your ship, my friend,” she observes. “It goes
voyaging from heart to heart, as the other does from port to port. No,
not a word! I promise that you shall not break my heart. Come, I will
show you what makes me safe--safe even from that terrible heart-rover
and sea-rover, that buccaneer of the ocean and of love, the invincible
Paul Jones.”
She smiles; but there is that about the smile which reminds one of
the hard glitter of a rapier. She rings a bell, says a low word, and
presently a little round-faced boy is brought in. He is the baby son of
the Duchess. Commodore Paul Jones has heard of the little boy; but this
is his earliest glimpse of him.
He is a handsome child, and Commodore Paul Jones gazes upon him with
admiration. The boy is to grow up and, fifty years later, sit on the
French throne as the “Citizen King.” This, however, is a secret of the
future, and neither the mother nor Commodore Paul Jones, as they look on
the small, round face, is granted a least glint of it. Released by the
nurse, little Louis Philippe toddles across to Commodore Paul Jones,
pudgy hands outstretched. The latter catches him up and kisses him. At
this the eyes of the Duchess soften with mother-love.
“See!” she remarks, and a sigh and a laugh struggle for precedence on
her lips--“See! he is like all of us. He loves you!” She becomes grave.
“There is my resource!” she goes on. “My friend, I will let you into
a secret. No man’s treason, not though he be the bewildering Paul
Jones”--this with a tinge of wicked emphasis--“can break a mother’s
heart. No; she takes refuge in her child, and finds his kisses sweeter
than a lover’s.”
She takes the boy out of his hands, and kisses the little face again and
still again. Commodore Paul Jones says no word of protest, explanation
or defence. The Duchess is taking her revenge; he knows it, and thinks
her entitled to it. Moreover, he is beginning in his own heart to be
relieved, and the guilty feeling that gnaws his conscience is sensibly
dulled.
The nurse returns and takes the boy. The Duchess gives the little face a
last kiss. Then her glance comes back to Commodore Paul Jones.
“Yes, my friend,” she says; “love your red-haired Aimee, since you love
her; I can give you up; for even though you leave me, you leave me a
Bourbon. And yet I feel a small jealousy--just a little stab! For that
stab, my friend, you must pay. No one harms a Bourbon, and escapes
unpunished.” This is said half quizzically, half seriously. “Yes, I
shall have my revenge. I intend that you shall marry Aimee.”